Remembering
by icingsugar
Summary: "He had tasted of whisky, not champagne, when they kissed above the saloon." Ilsa remembers her time with Rick as she falls asleep on the plane to Lisbon. Will she regret leaving him behind? Rated M. Please read and review.


**AN: A little something to add to this section. Ilsa Lund looks back on her relationship with Rick. Rated M for mature scenes.**

 **Please review and check out my other fics, any and all feedback is appreciated.**

Ilsa could no longer see the desert below from the little window beside her. That part was good at least. If she were to see the golden dunes give way to the sea she was sure to lose the last ounce of dignity she was trying so desperately to hold on to as the plane rose higher through the fog and break down in tears. She could not let that happen. Her husband's hand was resting on her own, trembling a little in time to the low hum of the engine. He hadn't spoken a word to her since they had taken off from the runway and that was just as well, she didn't think she could manage to string a sentence together anyway. Her thoughts kept returning back to Rick and the look he had given her as she said goodbye, his index finger below her chin as he tilted her head towards his. He had done the thinking for the both of them, and hadn't she asked him to in the first place? He had made the right decision, or so he said, by sending her away with Viktor, so why was it now that her heart seemed to ache so much?

She rested her head upon the window and closed her eyes, the vibration of the plane surprisingly comforting as she slumped downwards in the chair. She tried to think of America, to picture the expanding cities and the roads full of motor vehicles and the towering shadows of the skyscrapers. She thought of her and Viktor, walking hand in hand through the streets, no longer afraid to show their affection for one another as they handed out leaflets and rallied together a team of followers. Perhaps she would buy a new dress to mark the occasion; a long number with a full pleated skirt, but not blue. No, not that yet. She imagined the long country walks she could take without the sounds of planes and guns roaring in the distance. She could go alone, if she liked, and pack a picnic. When she got tired or hungry she would sit on a log and inhale the richness of the grass or crisp morning air.

In the plane Ilsa frowned, her brow wrinkling against the cold glass. And what would she think of when she took a break from her morning stroll? Whose figure would she imagine walking towards her over the fields? She sighed in her half-dose, her body shuddering in her seat. The weight upon her hand had gone and she instinctively drew her arms into her chest, resting them beneath her breasts. She was aware that somewhere, someone was kissing her cheek very faintly and she smiled although the empty feeling within her ribs remained. The plane hummed on as she burrowed further and further into the soft warm darkness which had begun to surround her. Someone was talking, very faintly, in the distance, like the lost signals of some old radio station. It didn't matter. She was asleep now, she was sure of it, and in the darkness she saw his face.

It didn't feel like a dream, it felt like remembering. It didn't seem to matter anymore anyway. Rick was there, smiling at her from across the small round table, the smoke from his cigarette pluming trails in the air. She remembered how he smiled at her that night, his face almost free of the lines which would later litter his face, just a few years later. He had raised his glass to her and glanced through long eyelashes as the piano played in the background.

"Here's looking at you, kid."

His tongue had tasted of champagne and his hands, callused from years of labour, had been gentle as he pressed his palm against her collarbone, his fingertips grazing her neck. The cool Parisian air flowed through the open shutters and kissed her bare skin, eliciting a delightful shudder as Rick pressed his lips firmly against the place between her breasts and moved slowly downward. The music from the piano rose through the floorboards as pressed his tongue against her, pulling her right thigh over his shoulder as he moved closer; she sighed deeply and moved her hips towards him.

She truly did love him. Some days she was plagued by guilt as she thought of her husband, buried in a shallow grave somewhere, or left to rot in amongst the tree roots and dampened soil, a canopy of branches above creating patterns upon his broken body. She wondered what he would think if he could see her now in Paris, wrapped in the arms of another man, his mouth pressed against her temple as his chest slowly rose and fell against her cheek. What would he say to her? His face haunted her at night, as she lay awake in the American's bed. Sometimes he stirred in the dark, awakening to find her eyes open. He would pull her closer and ask her what was wrong, his lips against her hair and his hands caressing her shoulder blades. She couldn't tell him. He wouldn't understand. She would always love Viktor, but she was _in love_ with Rick.

And then the news reached her. There was a chance that her husband was still alive but badly injured. She had gone to meet Rick, to tell him the truth. That was the day the Germans marched into Paris. She tried to warn him but the way he had looked at her, like a devoted puppy following its owner, broke her heart. The canon fire boomed in the distance as he made love to her on the upstairs couch, his lips never leaving hers, their noses pressed together as she wept silently. It was as though he knew, somehow. His hand gripped her thigh as he pushed into her, her moans falling silent against his lips. His thumb brushed against her wet cheekbone, a little roughly, wiping away the tears. She supposed he thought her tears were for Paris. She flattened her hand against his chest, feeling his heart beat through her fingertips. Maybe he feared for them both. She moved her lips to his brow, gasping out as she came. The canons fired on, rattling the window frames as he finished inside her, kissing along the streaks of tears and moving to her mouth. She could taste the salt on his lips and whispered to him over and over again how much she loved him, knowing she would never see him again.

And then she walked into his bar. It could have been fate, or coincidence; all she knew was that she had broken him. He had tasted of whisky, not champagne, when they kissed above the saloon. His hands had moved to cup her breasts as he pressed her against the whitewashed wall, their tongues pressing together as she unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor. She wondered what it would be like to be with him, to have him forever, to be able to kiss him every night without shame or guilt, to have him trail his lips over every inch of her in the Moroccan sun, to be able to call out his name without the pause, the moment of uncertainty as she questioned exactly whose name she should be moaning. He pinned her hand against the wall, above her head as he fucked her, the tip of his nose against hers, his breath warm as he moaned against her open mouth. She wondered what it would have been like had they met sooner, how differently her life would have turned out.

Her vision swam before her eyes, like the ripples of waves within a swimming pool. She was at once aware of the low rumble in the background. She thought back to Rick, the man she had loved, so fully and completely in Paris, and the man he had become in Casablanca. She loved them both; she was _in love_ with both. She thought of him kissing her, running his hands through the soft waves of her hair, whispering to her, pressing himself against her, pressing his tongue to the tip of her nipple as he latched onto her; loving her so sincerely and wholly. She felt a hand against her shoulder, pushing her gently.

"Ilsa?"

The voice was soft and the humming had stopped.

"Ilsa. We're here."

"Okay Viktor."

She slowly opened her eyes. The seat next to her was empty. She could see Viktor on the runway through the window, unloading the baggage from the plane. He smiled and waved as she sat up in her chair, the passenger door was open and a cool breeze touched her body. She reached for her coat, pulling in on in the cramped space, wrapping it closer. She looked once more at Viktor, exchanging pleasantries with the pilot, his lips gently turned up at the corner. She regarded the visible scar above his eye, and wondered how many scars he was carrying, deep down inside himself. His eyes were warm and gentle as he looked up once more to the window, nodding slightly. He understood everything, of course he did. He loved her and always would. She smiled back, getting up off her seat, bending down slightly to avoid banging her head, sighing.

"Enough." She muttered. "That's enough."

She would always have Paris and she would always have her memories. No Nazi or concentration camp or the slow passage of time could take those away from her. She would always carry Rick within her heart and she knew Viktor would too, for what he had done for them, and what he had sacrificed to do so. She would always love him, but she could not let herself live with the regret any longer. He had wanted her to live her life to the fullest. She trusted him, how could she not? She stepped off the plane and regarded the skyline, the Lisbon air smelled sweet and good. Viktor held out his hand and she took it without question, looking ahead as they walked side by side.

 **AN: Thank you for reading this. I was so excited to finally write it. If you could drop a line or two in the comments section and tell me what you thought it would mean a great deal! Check out my other fics and favourite if you like.**


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